


heavy the head that bears the crown

by julietofmayfair



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: An exploration of what mentors feel like in the THGverse, Gen, there is death at the end it's the hunger games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:29:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24529159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julietofmayfair/pseuds/julietofmayfair
Summary: Becoming a victor is hard. Living as a mentor is harder.(or, a look into the life of one victor Foster Klimm).
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	heavy the head that bears the crown

**Author's Note:**

> (Some context: Foster is an OC of mine from the Hunger Games universe. He won the games at 17, and a lot of his actions there consisted of stealing from other tributes, especially sponsored-items. That--plus the fact that he won--made him a bit of a controversial figure, with some people in the Capitol calling him a brilliant, ruthless strategist, and others calling him a vile coward (mostly sponsors, who never took a liking to him after that). If he was let to win the games by the Gamemakers to distract even people from the Capitol from more serious matters, nobody really knows.
> 
> TL;DR: Foster's my HG OC, he won some games and people didn't like him much).

The job of a mentor is a crucial one. Nobody knows as well as they do the horrors the tributes are about to face in the coming weeks, and certainly nobody but them have endured them and come out to tell their tale. Their expertise is invaluable to their young charges, as are their smarts and savviness when it comes to securing sponsors, whose gifts and patronage might mean the difference between life or death.

A mentor, to put it simply, is their tribute's lifeline.

And judging by the scowl on the District 6 boy's face, his lifeline had just been cut.

It didn't surprise Foster to see the sour expression as the kid entered the plush train cabin and plopped down noisily on the couch, his gaze fixed on the window and the bustling station beyond. If he was in his shoes, Foster thought, he would have done the same. Not only had the poor kid been picked among thousands to participate in the Games--something that, to most, was as good as a death sentence--, but he had also been unlucky enough to be paired up with Foster Klimm, the most controversial victor in recent history, and someone who sponsors would no doubt want to avoid. If the kid was disappointed, frustrated, or even avoidant he could understand, but giving him the cold shoulder wouldn't make him any less dead.

"Hey," Foster tried, getting up and finding a spot near the couch to sit down. 

The boy did not seem to mind the approach--a fact that Foster took as a good sign--, but the lack of a response made it clear he was not yet willing to aknowledge his mentor. It was the window that captured his undivided attention, and he stared at the outside world with a sullen, reproaching look in his eyes. Only as the train stared to shake and move forward did his demeanor begin to change, and as the platforms of the station gave way to the open roads beyond the District's wall every trace of the tough façade he had put up disappeared completely, leaving behind the soft features of a child. Foster knew that feeling well. It was the same one he had felt as he left for the Capitol all those years ago, that deep, bittersweet sorrow that told you that, of all the times you had seen your family and your home, this one might just have been the last.

The pneumatic noise of the cabin door cut through the silence like a sharp blade, putting an end to the tense atmosphere and pulling both mentor and tribute towards the sound of the approaching voices. The female tribute--a tall girl of about sixteen--was gesturing wildly as she spoke in hurried tones to her mentor, a jittery woman who trailed after her offering little to no response. As the pair walked by the couch, the young girl became silent, eyeing her opponent with suspicion and--as evident by her twitching hands--a considerable amount of fear. Not wanting for anyone to strike up a conversation, she quickly made a beeline for a couch on the other side of the cabin and sat down, waiting for her mentor to follow her. The jittery woman whispered soft "hello"s as she passed, her face showing Foster a small, amiable grin, one that he returned in earnest. 

Once both women were out of earshot, Foster turned his attention back to his charge. His eyes were locked on the other tribute, studying her, trying to make some sense of her, of anything. The encounter had clearly shaken him, and it was obvious to see that the reality of his situation was finally sinking in. _Good,_ Foster thought. _We're gonna need that._

"If I were you, I wouldn't count her out just yet," he said, leaning his elbows on his knees, trying to sound more confident than he actually felt. "She might look like a startled animal, but I can assure you there'll be some fight left in her when the time comes."

For the first time since they had boarded the train, the young tribute turned his head and finally faced his mentor. It was a hard look to bear, the one he fixed Foster with. He had been a mentor before, but it never got easier.

"She's not gonna make it." His voice had tried to sound rough, but his nerves had betrayed him. God, how old was he? Thirteen? Fourteen? Too young. "She's _not_ gonna make it and neither am _I_ , and there's nothing _you_ can do about it."

"I can teach you what I know, and--"

"Oh, yeah?" He spat it out mockingly, aiming to hurt. "What are _you_ gonna teach me? How to push sponsors away? How to make them hate me? Or are you gonna teach me how to steal from and take advantage of the _fucking weak?"_

In the quiet that followed the boy's outburst even the chirping of a mockingjay would have sounded like an avalanche. The kid held his ground, but after a couple of shaky breaths he collapsed on the couch, cheeks flushed from the sudden emotion. Both the female tribute and her mentor had turned to see what had happened, but the jittery woman--who had been in the boy's position once, and understood better than most what havoc it caused to the mind--quickly brought her girl's attention back to herself, leaving Foster to breathe a sigh of relief.

It was always the same with his tributes. The harsh comments and accusations had stopped bothering him a long time ago--whatever they told him could never compare to the horrors the media had put him through--, but time and again he found himself in the same, uncomfortable position. It had hurt the first time, and it would keep hurting, but he owed it to those kids he had under his wing to tell it to them straight. He was their mentor, and it was his job to teach them his lesson.

"Yes." Foster's voice was nothing more than a sad whisper now. He knew the words he had to speak would bring no peace to the poor tribute, but he was tired, tired of playing a part in sending innocent kids to the slaughter. He didn't care if the Capitol heard him. He only hoped the boy could listen. "Yes, I have to teach you that. I have to teach you to steal and lie and cheat, because the only way you end up being as hated as me is by being the one that _survives._ There is no game to be played here. It is rigged, rigged from the moment they put your name on that very first piece of paper. They will dress you up and put you on TV and fawn over you like they love you, but at the end of the day they couldn't care less if you live or die. It is cruel, and vicious, and completely unfair, so you do what you have to do and you _don't_ think about it." As gently as he could he raised his good hand and placed it on top of the boy's, hoping it could give him the comfort his words would not lend. "I'm so sorry. It shouldn't have been you. Any of you. They've already robbed you of something they should have never had the chance to touch. Don't let them take your life away as well."

For a few moments, the only thing that could be heard in that corner of the cabin was the rhythmic movements of the train. The boy's face--so expressive in his anger only minutes ago--was unreadable now, and his gaze was once again pulled towards the fading views outside. Foster let out a long sigh. He had made a mistake, hadn't he? He couldn't help the kid, regardless of what he said, just as he couldn't save the countless others he had mentored before. It was the victor's burden, and it was his to bear. Pulling himself together, he picked his hand up and moved it away from the boy's. He'd probably want his space now, and he'd be cruel to deny that.

But something would not let him leave. With a speed that had seemed beyond him, the boy's hand flew out and gripped his mentor's, his bony fingers locking around Foster's with a tightness and an urgency that made Foster's heart break. Little by little he began to pull the boy closer to him, letting him rest his head on his shoulder, but with a quick movement the boy flung himself at his side, his hands clinging to Foster's shirt like he was afraid that if he didn't hold on tight, he'd vanish. Without hesitation, Foster threw his arm around the kid and held him tight, and as he curled closer and closer into him, the boy finally started to cry.

They didn't show this on TV. It's not what the Capitol wants to see. The glitz, the drama and the bloodshed, yes, but never the anguish. Never the pain. As the boy's cries turned from soft, faltering weeping to gut-wrenching sobs, Foster could do nothing but stay by his side. He knew he couldn't protect him later, but he could give him this, now. The jittery woman--her tired eyes filled with more compassion than anyone would have thought possible--only needed the quickest of glances to understand, and as subtly as she could she stood up and gently ushered herself and her young tribute out of the door, leaving Foster to feel like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. 

"Hey," he said, once the boy's crying had finally subsided, replaced for the moment with deep, steady breaths. With a start, he realized he hadn't asked the kid for his name, only having heard it at the time of the Reaping. "Silan, right?"

The boy nodded, still curled up by his mentor's side.

"Have you brought any tokens with you, Silan?"

After a short moment of hesitation, Silan sat up straight and fished a small object out of his pocket. It was a cog, a tiny thing no bigger than a coin, with a cord of twine tied around its center so it could be worn as a necklace. The paint that had once covered it had begun to peel, but there were it remained it shone a bright silver, and as Foster turned it around in his hand it caught the light like a fine diamond.

"It was my mother's," the boy said softly, settling back against his mentor. "I found it one time she took me to the train yards, and she let me keep it. She said it would remind me of her if she ever went away."

"I'm sure it will."

Outside the windows, the Sun had finally begun to fall beyond the tree line, bathing the cabin in a warm, melancholy glow. Soon they would reach the Capitol--its shimmering buildings and blinding lights all ready and waiting--and then the real work would begin.

Giving the small cog one last spin, Foster sighed and gently set it back onto his tribute's open palm. 

"The things I said back then, about the games...I meant them." In the growing dusk, his tribute's eyes seemed to shine like starlight, and Foster prayed he would never see them fade away. "But I need you to know this. I will do _everything_ in my power to help you. Everything and beyond. As your mentor, and if you need one...as your friend. That is a promise." With his good hand, he closed the boy's fingers against his token and squeezed. "But you're gonna have to be brave, Silan, and you're gonna have to try. Will you try? Will you promise me that?"

The boy's voice was so quiet even a passing breeze would have drowned him out, but to Foster it was as loud and clear as it could ever be.

"I promise."

It was a quick hug they shared, but it was a true one. The mountains that loomed ahead signaled the end of the journey, but Foster knew it was only the start of the fight. With the last straggling light disappearing over the horizon, the train made its way into the tunnels, and as the earth engulfed everything in darkness, mentor and tribute soldiered on.

-x-

The gilded lounge at the Training Facility was abuzz with anticipation. All over the room, people with lavish hair and extravagant outfits laughed and mingled over champagne glasses, their excited hubbub making it clear it was almost showtime. The gigantic screens that hung from the ceiling would soon turn to life, and with them, a new edition of the Hunger Games would finally begin. Mentors and escorts stood the closest to them, anxiously awaiting to see what would be of their new young charges, while behind them the cream of the crop of the Capitol--those rich and famous enough to offer their sponsorship--cheered and hollered with mounting exhilaration.

With perfect dramatic timing, the flag of Panem finally materialized out of the blackness, capturing every glance in the room and making the chattering din turn into an electrifying, expectant murmur. After a few bars of the national anthem, the screen filled up with an aerial view of a mountainous, wind-swept terrain: the first views of the Arena. The sight of the challenging playfield sent a ripple of curses and cheers to go up from the crowd, as mentors and sponsors tried to solidify their strategies, and betting enthusiasts calculated their favorite's odds. Then, as the triumphant fanfare gave way to Claudius Templesmith's booming voice, the tributes in their circles finally appeared. The Games were about to begin.

Foster could already feel his heart beating frantically out of his chest. Swirling his champagne glass around, he tried to take deep, calming breaths, but as he found out every year, those sixty seconds before the gong were some of the hardest to bear. He had spent the week training Silan and doing his best to network, but even now he could feel the sponsors' gaze boring into him, and he hoped their distaste for him would not put his tribute's life in danger. The Arena worried him, too. The perilous landscape was not one Silan was used to, but he told himself not to panic. The cavernous mountains offered plenty of hiding spots for the boy to choose from, and the thick pine forest would be invaluable for providing sustenance. As long as the boy heeded his words, there was still a chance. _Don't be seen. Don't get caught. Don't go in the bloodbath._

As the crowd chanted along with the ticking countdown, Foster took a sip out of his champagne and reluctantly stared at the screen.

"...3! 2! 1! _Hunger Games!"_

_It all happened so fast. With the sound of the gong, the mass of tributes that would fight in the bloodbath swarmed to the center and converged on the Cornucopia, a group that, to Foster's dismay, included Silan Velaria of District 6. With a quickness Foster had come to know and trust, the boy dashed over the rocky soil and grabbed hold of a small backpack. The cameras had only a second to focus on his face--his eyes suddenly enormous as they appeared on the big screens--, because the next one a career's spear had pierced through his chest and dropped him to the ground. A small trickle of blood could be seen pouring out of his open mouth, but then the camera moved on to a wider shot, looking for more bloodshed to follow. Somewhere in that battlefield, among the bodies that now covered the ground, Silan took his last breath and ceased to be._

Foster wasn't sure how much time had passed until the fighting was finally done. Over on the screens, the surviving careers of the bloodbath patted each other on their backs and gathered the spoils of their victory, making their way into the mountains and leaving the bloodied bodies behind. The crowd had gasped and hollered at every killing, every death and execution, but Foster had long since learned to zone them out.

So that was that. Another year, another boy lost to the bloodshed. A boy who had risked everything by trusting his mentor, and a boy Foster knew he could never have saved. How many of them had he buried already? How many more? He had seen other victors lose touch with themselves--numbing the pain with drinks or drugs like the man from 12--, and with every new death on his hands he wondered if he'd ever end up like them. But as the sounds of the throng around him turned once again to idle chatter, Foster knew he could not afford that. He would weep--he _had_ to--, but not there. Not for them. The tears he had to shed, he would shed in private, away from the cameras and prying gazes of the Capitol, of those shallow people that only cared to be entertained. They had taken Silan and turned his death into a spectacle, but the mourning the boy deserved would be for him, and him alone.

It didn't take long for the hovercrafts to arrive at the scene of the bloodbath. With the last images of Silan Velaria's body being lifted up into the air--the carefree laughter of the crowd mixing together with the dismal sounds of the canyons--, Foster Klimm made his way to the exit, and walked out the door.


End file.
